The Rambles of an Idler 



It is not strange that as the month passes we 

 often find ourselves in a profoundly medi- 

 tative mood. I remember, as a little child, how 

 eagerly I watched the preparations for the 

 promised cakes for which I longed, and oh, how 

 distant seemed the time when the dough was in 

 the oven. July, August, September; these are 

 the days when Nature is in the oven and the 

 rambler must wait from now the end of June 

 until October, before the feast is ready. 



July, August, September! I know nothing 

 so fitting to say of them as that in ninety days 

 it will be October. 



THE CAT-BIRD 



A singing bird, an oak tree's shade and grass 

 That yet unwilted greens the gentle slope, 

 The leisured clouds that loiter as they pass, 

 To care a stranger and un-plagued by hope; 



Grant, kindly Fate, like blessing; not deny; 



All else, how little worth, in mid-July. 



The fervent fields aglow with summer heat, 

 The steaming marshes reeking in their mist, 

 Languid, the rippling river's pulses beat 

 Where tide and meadow-shore have heartless kissed; 

 They woo me not to wander hence, for I 

 Find all that tempts me, here, in mid-July. 



90 



